


Fascination Casts A Spell

by Trojie



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Dancing, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-18
Updated: 2010-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet in a club.</p><p>Written for the Kinkme_Merlin prompt 'Arthur/Merlin - I wanna rock your body'. Title from Savage Garden's 'Chained To You'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fascination Casts A Spell

It's just a dance.

Fuck, but it's hot. It's hot on the floor, it's hot under Arthur's shirt, _wet_ and hot, and it's hot between their bodies, not that there's much space there - Arthur might as well be _wearing_ the guy. He's practically wedged between Arthur's thighs, he's so close, and the rhythm of the song is just a slow walk, swaggering bass, grinding beat, so they do like the music's telling them to.

Arthur doesn't know who his partner is, and doesn't care - he just knows this is where he's supposed to be. He doesn't even want to fuck the guy - he _did_ , but now he just wants this dance to go forever, because the slow burning between them is hotter, better, the crowded dancefloor and all the witnesses make it wronger, and he likes this kind of wrong.

'Wanna dance?' he'd asked, because skinny jeans and thin t-shirts make his mouth water at the best of times, and this guy was made to wear both.

The guy put his drink down, and ran his eyes slowly and deliberately up and down Arthur's body. Arthur held still, deliberately not fussing with his collar or checking his hair. He knew he looked good. 'Yeah, okay,' the guy'd said, and he took Arthur's hand when it was offered.

And now here they are, stuck like glue, all over each other, and it must look almost as good from the outside as it feels from here because Arthur knows they're being watched.

'Wanna take this outside?'

'No,' Arthur says. 'Rather stay here.'

A shit-eating grin spreads across the other guy's face. 'Oh really?'

'Yeah.'

The beat morphs, pounds into something faster and harder, so they have to shout into each others' ears.

'Do I even know your name?'

'Do I know yours?' Arthur shouts back. The guy shakes his head, goes to say something (probably his name, actually) in Arthur's ear, but Arthur gets in first. 'I don't want to,' he says, threading his fingers through the other guy's belt-loops and moving within the cradle of his knees and thighs. 'I don't care about your name, I don't care about what you do or where you live or any of it. I just wanna rock your body.'

From neon blues the lighting swirls yellow, staining the man's pale skin tawny and lining the irises of his eyes in gold. 'That sounds like a challenge,' he yells, and steps it up. He drops, rolls like a snake back up Arthur's body, back to belly so his arse brushes tight against Arthur's groin, and Arthur knows he's got a fight on his hands.

When that song ends, the next one's quieter, slower, and the man looks back to his table, where his friends are watching them, and laughing amongst themselves. 'I should be getting back,' he starts.

Arthur grabs his wrist. 'Don't,' he says. 'Dance with me til last call?'

'My friends-'

'Will see you again next weekend. I won't. Dance with me til kicking-out time, and then after you can do what you want with the night - go find your friends, go home, come back to mine ... but just dance with me?'

'Why so keen?' the guy asks, softly curious. He doesn't pull his hand out of Arthur's.

'I dunno.' Arthur shrugs. 'Just a feeling, y'know?'

Their eyes meet. Arthur leads the guy back onto the dancefloor, and they don't look away, grinding together, swaying together, rolling and bumping and welding themselves together until the very last song.

It's a slow one, heartbeat-pace, someone soprano sampled as the melody, and from where the other guy's arm is draped soft over Arthur's shoulder he can feel their pulses match, breathes in the other man's breath and sweat, musk, aftershave, the edge of the shampoo he must have used before coming out.

The guy reaches for Arthur's hand, kisses his knuckles in an oddly courtly gesture that's belied by the way he slips his other hand into Arthur's back pocket and squeezes salaciously.

When Arthur gets home, he finds a number scribbled onto a bit of torn-up beer mat, and a name

 _Merlin_.

and realises he knew that all along.


End file.
